


i bet you think that i’m a lost cause, i bet you think that i am all wrong

by carpethefanfics



Series: we were just kids when we fell in love [4]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Break Up, Cheating, Drinking, Drinking to Oblivion, Eventual Comfort, Eventual Fluff, Explicit Sexual Content, Heartache, Heartbreak, Implied Sexual Content, Jealousy, M/M, Meaningless Sex, Smoking, Swearing, meaningless hook up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:07:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24585073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carpethefanfics/pseuds/carpethefanfics
Summary: “Fuck you Ian. I came out for you. I got beaten the fuck up for you, kicked out of my fucking family for you, I, I-” Mickey’s hand comes up so that his thumb swipes at his nose, his eyes dancing over Ian’s face always with amusement. He’s fucking irritated and it’s all boiling under his skin, he doesn’t even know how to breath looking at Ian and feeling like he loves him but hating him all the same, “What are you even fucking doing here? Huh? Fucking leave if there’s nothing!”
Relationships: Ian Gallagher & Mickey Milkovich, Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Series: we were just kids when we fell in love [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1764802
Comments: 4
Kudos: 66





	i bet you think that i’m a lost cause, i bet you think that i am all wrong

**Author's Note:**

> I mashed the original Shameless docks scene with their actual breakup scene and add my own little twists to it.
> 
> Title from ON God by Jonny Craig.

Mickey is lying on the couch with the spare blanket and his pillow way too awake for two o’clock in the morning. He and Ian had fought- some guy with his hand on Ian’s harm when Mickey had pulled up to pick him up from work. Thinking back now it was stupid and meaningless and he regretted it, but he had already decided to sleep on the couch to punctuate his point when he realized that. So here he is- on his back, staring at the peeled paint of the ceiling and he can’t get the image from the gallery opening out of his fucking head.

The one from the very last time they had broken up.

He vividly remembers the sight of Ian smoking a cigarette and leaning back against that covered boat. The way that he had stilled when Mickey called out for him- the way his eyes flicked upwards to meet him. They had collided together like the fight and the distance in the days before that moment meant absolutely fucking nothing. He felt that kiss down to his _fucking toes_ \- licking his way deep into Ian’s mouth with his hand on his neck, his fingers trailing down over the skin of Ian’s chest exposed by the open buttons of his shirt.

It was a fucking moment to remember.

And sure, Ian’s sleeping in the bedroom right now with what Mickey pictures in his mind as this soft look across his face. Mickey could crawl into bed and kiss his way up Ian’s back; could offer his forgiveness for the jealousy and snide comments- for pushing Ian away from him.

But he’s always been a stubborn ox of a man. So instead, he lies awake, scared out of his mind at the things his anxiety is telling him about how fighting with Ian like this is what’s going to make Ian leave. They’ve been here before after all.

That night, the gallery picture night, the docks night- they had finally ended it. After four years of playing way too intense emotional games- of Mickey almost going to prison, Ian falling off and getting back on the bipolar pill wagon more times than he could count, the cheating and the running and the toxicity of it all. They weren’t ready- for each other, for a life, for something **stable**. It was the last moment they shared. Ian pressed up against his back, the sound of the metal of his belt hitting the ground, Ian’s lips and hands. _**Fuck**_.

Then Mickey told him he was leaving.

Now he’s sitting up, a worn-out Ian hidden behind their closed bedroom door, and Mickey’s pulling a cigarette between his lips. That day was the worst fucking day and he had tried for four years to forget about it- had spent the last three remedying every second he hadn’t been able to put his hands on the love of his goddamn life. But with one fell swoop, and one beautifully devastating photograph, Mickey’s back to feeling like the asshole Ian loves who can’t help but fixate on the bullshit.

*

“Fuck you.”

Mickey has this heated look in his eye as he strolls toward Ian and before Ian can even second guess his movements the cigarette in his hand is being thrown to the side and he’s surging forward to meet Mickey’s mouth. Mickey’s hand comes up to rest against the side of his neck, his fingers brushing against the hairs on the back of Ian’s neck, just as Ian’s hand cradles the back of Mickey’s head angling his mouth to open wider. The kiss is deep and the taste of Mickey on Ian’s tongue, the smell of him, the feeling of him is making Ian feel _high_.

“Fucking cheat on me,” the kiss is punctuated by Mickey’s breathless angry ramblings, “won’t get out of fucking bed-” he can’t seem to stop “-fucking bouncing off the walls all day and all goddamn night- you **_piece of shit_**.”

The whole moment, the kiss, it’s aggressive and way to harsh and it definitely hurts. Jaws too wide, hands too tight, nails biting into skin too deeply. Mickey’s fucking angry with him. And he’s angry with Mickey. The moment Ian comes back to himself he pushes Mickey back, his voice is harsh, “You used to love me. _Now you don’t even know who I am_. Fuck- I don’t know who I am half the time.”

Mickey’s not having it though, can barely even let Ian get a second to think before he’s stepping forward again, “Shut your fucking mouth.” Their mouths meet and Ian feels like he’s being pulled. Mickey’s hands move back around his neck to drag him even closer. It’s not as needy as before- they’re mouths aren’t as eager- but it touches Ian in a whole new way. It’s slow and warm and fuck- when Mickey’s hand drags down Ian’s neck to rest against the exposed skin of his chest, he feels shivers roll up his spine.

“Goddammit!”

Ian pulls himself out of it again. He can barely contain himself; his skin is on fucking fire; his head is a goddamn mess and he can still feel the burn on his chin and his lips from where Mickey had kissed him.

“Shit Mickey.”

**_When did Mickey became like fucking gravity?_ **

“We can’t fucking do this anymore.”

Ian’s standing farther back from Mickey now and he only realizes he’s pacing, his body jittery with energy from the burning inside, from the craving of having Mickey so near, when he hears the crunch of gravel underneath him.

“Fuck you Ian. I came out for you. I got beaten the fuck up for you, kicked out of my fucking family for you, I, I-” Mickey’s hand comes up so that his thumb swipes at his nose, his eyes dancing over Ian’s face always with amusement. He’s fucking irritated and it’s all boiling under his skin, he doesn’t even know how to breath looking at Ian and feeling like he loves him but hating him all the same, “What are you even fucking doing here? Huh? Fucking leave if there’s nothing!”

And that’s it really. What is Ian doing there? After fucking everything they’ve put each other through, after fucking everything, Mickey calls and he comes fucking running. The moment he had seen his figure, heard his voice, he let Mickey wander right back inside him. And he wants him now despite it all; wants him **always**.

So, when Mickey’s eyebrow raises, when that goddamn smirk rises slowly to his lips, and their eyes connect… well Ian’s resolve all but evaporates. He pushes forward to grip Mickey’s jacket and pull it down his arms; to connect his lips to Mickey’s again, to shuffle his own jacket as far off his heated body as he can get it. The moment he has his arms back to himself his hand comes up to clasp Mickey’s head and pull him forward, to pull their mouths deeper, to lick into Mickey’s mouth with the fucking ferocity that’s rooting around inside him.

Then his hands are moving down to the button of Mickey’s jeans just as Mickey works to undue the clasp of his belt, “Tell me goodbye.” The words rip through him, but he doesn’t want to think about it, not when he has Mickey in front of him looking at him _like that_. So, he pushes Mickey back into the edge of the boat behind him, eyes connected, arms raising to pull his short over his head, “What?”

He’s breathing so heavily he doesn’t understand how Mickey can talk right now. His hands move to brush away Mickey’s from his and tear his own belt out of the loops of his jeans. With Mickey eyeing the movement he turns, and Ian can’t let him have any power right now- he needs Mickey to know who he belongs to. He slowly connects his hard chest with Mickey’s back as his fingers carefully caress his neck, moving his hair to rest his lips against the spot he knows Mickey likes, “ _Fuck_.”

His eyes are closed as his hands work Mickey’s pants down, as his mouth moves down the side of Mickey’s neck, marking him as best he can. He can tell Mickey’s biting his lip and his body fucking tingles when Mickey’s hand reaches back to grip Ian’s ass and thrust the hard length of him against Mickey’s backside. Without hesitation Ian’s moving one hand down to work Mickey open, listening to the breathless grunts of Mickey, at the same time as he’s gripping Mickey’s hand and slamming it on the boat in front of them. But then those three fucking words fall off Mickey’s lips and Ian stills, “I love you.”

His hand over Mickey’s grips tighter, his forehead moving to rest against Mickey’s back as his eyes close, “The hell does that even mean?” Mickey’s voice is so much gentler than before, a little nervous, a little jilted, “I thought it meant we take care of each other.”

Ian pulls back from him, moving to pull his jeans up and Mickey’s whirling around as Ian’s mouth starts to run, “I don’t want you sitting around worrying, fucking watching me … just waiting for me to tell you I fucked someone else again Mickey!”

He can feel the fucking tears ready to spill and he can’t fuckin’ look at Mickey’s face, “Fuck- it was supposed to mean thick and thin, good times, bad, sickness, health, all that shit. What happened to us?”

Mickey’s staring at him with this incredulous look on his face. Like he isn’t sure what he wants to do in this moment with Ian. Like maybe he wants to fucking run, be the one to leave Ian rather than listen to Ian list all the reasons he’s about to leave him. As Ian lifts his face to meet those beautiful blue eyes, he hates himself for how glassy they look, “I always wondered… If you were gunna marry me. One day. What that life would look like … me off my meds, maxing out your fucking credit cards and then taking me back.”

But that seems to hit Mickey like a goddamn slap. His eyebrows pull together and his jaw grits, “Oh, fuck you … The hell is wrong with you.”

And Ian fucking explodes, “Too much! Too much is wrong with me. That’s the problem, isn’t? Too much is wrong with me, and you can’t do anything. You can’t change it. You can’t fix me cause I’m not broken. I don’t need to be fixed. Okay, I’m **me**!”

And Mickey doesn’t really want to fucking hear the sob story anymore. Doesn’t want to hear about poor bipolar Ian Gallagher because fuck that. They’re southside, you get handed a shitty deck of cards and re-fucking-shuffle until you can fucking stand to get the fuck out of your bed.

Mickey’s got his hands holding up his jeans which are still unbuttoned, and his face is so flush from the anger, “This isn’t fucking you! Cheating on me, running around like a goddamn chicken with its head cut off. What kind of loaded bullshit did your mom fill your fucking head with? The meds level you out Ian- so you can be you, so we can be-”

“So, we can be what Mickey? Normal!?”

Ian lets out a laugh- it’s so disjointed from the situation and the loss that’s happening for the both of them right here, but he feels it down to his bones. He knows Mickey does too. They were never going to get normal. Hurt and pain and fucking heartache- that’s what was written in the stars for them.

Mickey’s voice fucking cracks, “This is really it? This is you breaking up with me.”

The tears keep flowing down Ian’s cheeks, “Yeah.”

Their eyes are scanning the other, unsure and afraid, “Even though you love me?”

Ian lets his head roll back and his eyes turn to the darkness above, there’s no stars, it’s just a whole lot of nothing and Ian thinks it fits the situation so fucking perfectly, “Then I’m leaving Ian.”

The words fall off his lips so easily, “Maybe you should.”

*

Mickey wanders for a while after that.

He spends one night putting his fist through walls and drinking so much there are some new marks on his body he doesn’t remember. A hickey on his fucking chest and a bruise across his cheekbone. He has faint memories of an alleyway and his head bounding off a brick wall. It makes him sick- that he let someone get so far under his skin he doesn’t know who the fuck he is without him anymore. He doesn’t know how to be without someone anymore. Mandy would tell him it’s something to be grateful for- to know what it’s like to not need to be alone. Right now, though? Right now, he regrets every last longing gaze and every touch and every fucking time he chased after Ian. Because now it’s nothing but fucking pain radiating through his jaw and his shoulders and his head and his chest… his heart.

But then he packs up an old car he had been fixing up for a few months just like he told Ian he would and says goodbye to the empty stale fucking air of the Milkovich house. He leaves. And he pushes every thought of Ian out of his head the further and further he heads out of the state lines. He smokes an entire pack of cigarettes to keep from nervously chewing on the skin around his fingernails and thinks he chews an entire pack of gum after that.

He needed to focus on something that would keep him from turning the fuck around and going back.

He goes state to state; city to city; job to stupid job and he _doesn’t think of him_. At first, he tries to do shit that’s normal and mundane and routine. He wants a life- to live a life that’s not something out of a goddamn horror film or a crime doc or a traumatic biography. He finds a few garages that’ll take him on as an apprentice so he can learn a little bit more than how to change a tire or hotwire from under the steering wheel. The guys that work there are more often than not part ex-cons, part actual fucking mechanics, part old as shit. But he feels normal. At least for a while.

He puts in ten-hour days and he sleeps through the night and he starts fucking running. He never really understood what Ian got out of it back then- why someone would want to do that. But it drives him to the point of exhaustion and honestly, when you’re that exhausted, it’s hard to think straight. Hard to stay up all night fixating on dumb shit like a broken heart. The mechanics eventually start taking him for a few beers, and he learns about their lives with wives that they bitch about, endlessly. Mickey can tell there’s love there but fuck, they’re not in white fucking suburbia with money and cars and 2.5 kids. So he listens. And he does it without sharing too much about his own life- his own ache.

_“Like the Chicago Milkoviches? Like the fuckers that pull-out teeth and dump bodies?”_

_“Dunno man. Probably cousins I never met giving me a bad fuckin name.”_

He has nothing but dingy, dark apartments for a while too with bathtubs that never fully drain and fridges with smells from things that probably rotted or died inside. But it’s alright. He’s got money and food and a new fucking phone because he threw the last one off a bridge on a drunk ass night in god knows where. He doesn’t really care about the counter that never gets quite clean enough to not be sticky or the bathroom door that jams anytime you try to close it.

He keeps to himself. He knows it’s what’s best. But eventually he gets a little too fucking antsy and finds himself at a whole in the wall bar with a mouth around his cock and two thick fingers up his ass, just so he doesn’t get **too** bitchy.

_“You like it like that baby?”_

_“Would you shut the fuck up and just do it.”_

But honestly- shit like this just reminds him of Ian and that’s not really where he needs to be mentally right now, so he jerks the guy off his dick- claims of too much booze, no way he’s going to cum and runs.

He hates himself for how many nights he spends thinking about Ian- hates himself even fucking more for how many times he jerks off to memories of nights they had together. He hadn’t fucked dudes before Ian, but he definitely had after and he feels like Ian’s goddamn ruined him. Feels like **_love_** has goddamn ruined him. He can’t just have a quick and dirty fuck- can’t get hard bent over a stall with a guy who just rails into him. He needs that fucking magic touch Ian had. The way he knew exactly where Mickey wanted to be gripped, where Mickey needed his hands, where Mickey needed his mouth.

 _God, he fucking misses it_.

There’s one night he always goes to in his memory. Ian’s lying on top of him, thrusting slow and deep inside him. He’s got his forearms braced around Mickey’s head and their eyes are locked together. Their breathing is heavy, and Mickey’s thighs are tightly wrapped around Ian’s waist as he grinds into him. It’s so fucking hot and their skin is sticky, and Ian’s thoroughly kissed the hell out of his mouth so that their lips are puffy, and cheeks are pink. They’re just staring at each other, deep into each other, and Ian’s hips hit an angle inside of him that makes Mickey’s breath stutter, makes his eyes flutter, makes his head tilt back. He remembers refocusing, he remembers Ian’s eyes going wide and heated at the noise that breaks through Mickey’s lips as he thrusts. Ian had leaned in closer, their noses brushing and whispered in this low, sexy voice, “ **I’m in love with you.** ”

It had taken his _fucking breath away_.

It takes his breath away now as he remembers it- as he realizes that that moment Ian’s eyes had gone wide which is seared into his brain was probably the exact moment Ian realized he was in love with him.

He wonders if you can die from being torn away from someone.

That is until Iggy finds him of course. Then he wonders if you can die from annoyance.

Something about Mexico and the cartel and big money. Something about how he needs his brother- a brother with actual fucking brains. And the Mickey he was with Ian, the one he was before Ian even who could actually function without feeling like he had a huge gaping hole in his chest, would say hell no. But this Mickey he is right now? What does he have to fucking lose?

_“So, you’ll come?”_

_“Did I not just say that you, dumb fuck?”_

_“Then let’s get the fuck outta this shithole.”_

He figures if he’s going to fall down the rabbit hole, might as well go all the fucking way.

*

Mickey’s definitely crying from where he’s sitting on the couch. Hates himself for it- hates himself for the sound of his father’s voice in the back of his head telling him to buck the fuck up. Milkovich men don’t cry over fucking boys. Milkovich men don’t cry period. Milkovich men aren’t fucking gay. But still, he can feel the hot wet drops fall down his face and he honestly doesn’t know how a memory- despite so much time, could hit him like a goddamn ton of bricks.

But if he’s being real with himself, being back with Ian had been as amazing as it had been scary. They had been so fucking terrible for each other and he wasn’t sure, when they found their way back together, if they were going to be any better. Sure, they had grown up and had jobs and paid bills and gotten some level of maturity. But they were still Mickey and Ian. Still fucked up in their own unique brand of ways that always seemed to clash.

He wondered if Ian would give up on them again.

And he wondered if Ian thought he would run again.

“Mick,” Ian’s warm and sleepy voice breaks him out of his thoughts. It’s so fucking wonderful to hear it that Mickey can’t help but feel himself choke on it. “You know that guy didn’t mean anything, I wasn’t flirting with him I promise,” he can feel Ian rustling the couch as he saddles up next to him. He should answer, he should wipe away the evidence of a hard night off his face, but he can’t. “Mick,” he feels Ian’s arms pulling him into his chest. He settles there, listening to that comforting heartbeat, “Baby what’s going on?” Mickey tries to stop the way his body tenses up; tries to answer Ian even but he can’t. He hates that a memory can do this much to him; have this much control over him.

Ian’s lips on his temple are just enough to break his silence, “I don’t want to lose you.”

 _Again_.

Ian’s arms tighten around him, “You couldn’t. You won’t.”

Mickey peers up to meet Ian’s eyes, “That day. The docks-” and Ian’s eyes are so soft when they meet him, “That was the worst fucking day.” He raises his hand to brush Ian’s cheek, “I don’t know how we survived.”

Ian’s voice is a soft murmur, “Me either.”

Mickey pulls back, his hands still resting on Ian’s cheek, “How did you do it? Four years apart?”

Ian seems to stare off somewhere as Mickey watches him, as his hands drift down to grasp Mickey’s wrists, “I told myself that I could live with the memories of you… at least. If I couldn’t have **_you_**.”

Ian thought about the night he had first asked himself that question. He saw it so vividly. Images of himself swiping away the dampness on his cheeks; hours spend lying down and staring at the ceiling until the sun came up. Those stupid fucking lines from that stupid fucking movie Mandy made him watch running through his head like a goddamn monologue of his life.

_Do you think I can have one more kiss? I’ll find closure on your lips and then I’ll go._

_Maybe we can lie in bed one more time. One more prolonged moment where time suspends indefinitely as I rest my head on your chest._

_Unfortunately, sometimes things don’t break, they shatter. But when you let the light in, shattered glass will glitter. And in those moments, when the pieces of what we were catch the sun, I’ll remember just how beautiful it was._

All he could think about in the days that would pass were his last moment with Mickey- his last look, their last touch. They had shattered what they were, and Ian wondered back then if they would ever get it back. If he could ever have what he had with Mickey with anyone else- if he would ever want it? How could anyone ever make him feel the way Mickey had? Ever understand him the way Mickey had? He wanted to hold onto those moments like the pieces of shattered glass glittering but all he felt was like the pieces were trapped under the bones of his ribs, underneath his fingernails, cutting into him painfully so he never forgot how much he had done to break it.

Mickey’s touch brings him back to the present, his hand running down Ian’s chest, “I told myself that. But clearly,” Ian leans down to kiss Mickey’s lips gently, “I couldn’t.”

Ian’s mouth isn’t as hot and insistent as it usually is. It’s gentle. His lips are slightly parted as they move softly against Mickey’s. It’s like he’s trying to tell him- _I love you, I’m not going to leave you, I want us._ The way Ian’s hands move up to wrap around his neck; his thumbs brushing the skin of Mickey’s cheeks, pulling him in closer. Mickey feels safe here, in their home, in Ian’s arms.

When Ian pulls back, just barely so that their noses still brush, “I’m sorry -” another peck of Mickey’s lips, “I love you-” and another, “Come to bed.”

So, Mickey does. He takes Ian’s hand **and he trusts him**.

*

**Author's Note:**

> I know the 'Mickey years' portion was short but have more plans for that. It'll come up again.
> 
> Also, the movie I'm talking about in the Ian scene with those lines is Someone Great. I highly recommend if you want to cry.


End file.
